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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777578">Think I'm Gonna (Like?) It Here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepose/pseuds/rosepose'>rosepose</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>ADHD, Alternate Universe, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Dean Winchester Has ADHD, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, He/They Sam Winchester, HunterCorp Castiel and HunterCorp Dean Winchester Established Relationship, HunterCorp Universe (Supernatural), John Winchester Is Dead, M/M, Non-Binary Sam Winchester, Repressed Bisexual Dean Winchester, because i hate him</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:49:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepose/pseuds/rosepose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam and Dean are thrust into an alternate universe, they find they are the Co-CEOs of the international corporation HunterCorp. In order to find a way home, they must adapt. And...maybe Other Sam and Dean have figured out more than they realize.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>AU Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, AU Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>These Peeps Are Talented</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Mr. and Dr. Winchester</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Don’t ask Dean how it happened. It just did. Jack opened a rift, and he and Sam ended up in a board room—one of those ones you only see in movies, at the top of a skyscraper with glass walls and a big, oblong table. Sam sits next to him, wearing some idiotic purple blazer and an...ascot? A scarf? The point is, he looks dumb. A thought runs through Dean’s head that he’s probably wearing something stupid too, so he makes a point not to look.</p><p>A woman in a pantsuit stands in front of a projection screen that pictures a line graph, the words HunterCorp printed boldly at the top. What? “So, Mr. Winchester,” the woman says with a nod to Dean. Then, to Sam, “Dr. Winchester.” Dean and Sam share a look of confusion for a second, but Sam settles back into his chair, eyebrows raised.  <em>Doctor</em>? What on Earth would Sam even be a doctor of? God, now he’s going to go and get a big head about a PhD he didn’t even earn.</p><p>“Now, I know you two are very busy, but we do have some very good news to report. As you know, our educational outreach programs have led to a steady decline in demonic possession.” Her hand gestures downward with the trend of the line. “Well, after polling across demographics, we’ve found that HunterCorp’s efforts have led to a 32 percent overall decrease in possession.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes go wide. <em>Educational Outreach? </em>He looks to Sam again, who only shrugs. The people around the table, all dressed in some form of business wear, begin to clap, their eyes on Sam and Dean. “Though, that is an overall estimate,” the woman continues, “The elderly, ill, and impoverished still remain the most vulnerable to these threats.” The slide changes. “So, our plan for this next quarter is…”</p><p>Dean tunes her out after a few more sentences about “doubling down on efforts.” He looks around. Are they...they’re actually doing good here, aren’t they? Does everyone here know about the supernatural? He thinks about it for a minute. Does the average joe know about ghosts and iron, that demons hate salt? </p><p>Maybe this is the right way to do it. He’s got no idea how Other Sam and Dean swung it, but they’re saving lots of people. Or, at least, thirty-two percent of them. That’s a lot. He jiggles his knee under the table and wonders how much longer the meeting will go on. </p><p>When it’s finally over, people begin to shuffle out of the room. Sam leans over to Dean. “This is actually pretty cool,” he says. Dean just nods, still not sure what’s going on or how they’ll get home.</p><p> He stands, jumping when a hand rests on his shoulder. He whips around to see a young woman in a suit. An intern? Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail and she holds out a tablet for Dean to see. Dean looks from it to the intern, frowning. “Hi, Mr. Winchester. Here are the notes for this meeting,” she zooms in so Dean can see better. There’s a lot of big headings, asterisks, and different colors. He squints at it. “So, at the top, I’ve listed all of the topics we went over today. Then,” she scrolls with her finger, “Under each heading I’ve condensed the info into three bullets: new data, implications, and objective.” Dean blinks, unsure of exactly what all that means, though the intern’s eager smile doesn’t dim. “I already emailed it to you, but I wanted to ask if you wanted it printed or not before you go.”</p><p>“Uhh...that’s alright, I guess,” Dean says. What is going on?</p><p>“Okay, then. Have a nice break, Mr. Winchester. See you tomorrow, Dr. Winchester,” she says with a wave as she leaves. Dean doesn’t even have to look at Sam to know that he’s smirking. </p><p>“Dude,” he says, “You have a personal notetaker.”</p><p>Dean straightens his jacket, and he realizes it’s some kind of tan overcoat with big, showy buttons. “I’m probably a busy guy, Sammy. I don’t have time to remember stuff.” He pauses. “Hey, did she say ‘break’? Where am I going?”</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>When they make it to the ground floor, it’s pretty clear that they’re in New York City, and Dean does his best to contain the visceral shudder that runs through him. All he can think about is how loud it is. Too loud, too many things trying to grab your attention—he doesn’t like it. He’d take Baby on an open, empty road over a city any day. He looks over at Sam, hoping to share a moment of mutual disgust, but he seems unfazed.  </p><p>Dean and Sam stride into the lobby, and it’s about as corporate and douche-y as Dean would expect. First, it’s way too big, and it’s got stark-white geometric furniture that looks anything but comfortable to sit in. Then, there’s the big reception desk that extends almost the length of the room, made entirely of glass. Seriously, what is it with this building and glass? He would think this operation would want to be a little more secretive. </p><p>Dean meanders over to reception, noticing the array of pamphlets perched in displays on top of it. He grabs the first one he sees and reads it:</p><p> </p><p><em>INFORMED CONSENT</em>: THE HunterCorp©</p><p>GUIDE TO ANGELIC POSSESSION</p><p>*THIS GUIDE IS INTENDED AS A PREVENTATIVE MEASURE.</p><p>IF YOU ENCOUNTER A SUPERNATURAL THREAT,</p><p>PLEASE CALL THE LOCAL AUTHORITIES OR</p><p>THE HunterCorp© HOTLINE TO ALERT </p><p>A SPECIALIST IN YOUR AREA.</p><p>Okay, well, he wasn’t expecting...that. “Mr. Winchester?” the receptionist asks from behind the desk, “Would you like me to call cars for you and Dr. Winchester?”</p><p>“Uhh...Just the one.”</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>“Where to?” The driver asks, once Sam and Dean have slid into the backseat of a black SUV— <em>Where the hell is Baby?</em>—<em> Right, not the time.  </em></p><p>“My...house?” Dean tries, and the driver nods into the mirror. Sam gives him a cheeky smile and a thumbs-up, to which Dean replies, “Shut it, Man Bun.” </p><p>Sam’s face falls, and his hands fly to his head, checking to see if it’s true. Dean laughs. After a moment of brooding, Sam pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Let’s look ourselves up.”</p><p>Dean nods. “Proceed, Doctor.” Sam ignores him, and begins furtively typing on the phone. His eyebrows knit together as he reads. “What does it say?”</p><p>“Um…‘HunterCorp is a non-profit, federally contracted corporation that works in tandem with the CIA, FBI, NSA, the Department of Homeland Security, and other international security organizations to catalogue and neutralize supernatural threats.’ And it says we’re the Co-CEOs.”</p><p>Dean just stares. “What does that mean?” </p><p>Sam looks up. “I think it means...we have a lot of connections.”</p><p>The car pulls up to a high-rise building, and Dean steps out, feeling weird and overly pretentious. A doorman opens the door for him with a smile, and his stomach lurches. He doesn’t like it. How many employees did one guy need to get through the day. What with the notetaker, the receptionist, the driver—did this guy do <em>anything</em> on his own? It doesn’t seem right to be taking up so much...space. Did he have someone to wipe his ass for him too?</p><p>As Dean and Sam step into yet another grand foyer, Dean panics. “I don’t even know where my apartment—”</p><p>“17C.” Sam says, looking down. He waves Other Sam’s phone at Dean. “I have you in my contacts.”</p><p>“Oh...Good thinking, Sammy.”</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>Dean walks into Other Dean’s apartment, opening it with the key he found in his pocket, Sam trailing behind him. It’s huge for an apartment, and Dean thinks he’s gotta be loaded. The kitchen is off to the right—some kind of rustic-modern throw-up complete with a gaudy cast iron oven. Something is cooking in a pot on the burner, and it smells fantastic. </p><p>“Dean?” A voice calls, and Dean perks up. He knows that voice. Sure enough, Cas rounds the corner and into the living room. His hair is tousled, and he’s barefoot, wearing a dark blue sweater and jeans. It startles Dean. His Cas—the one from his universe—only ever wears one outfit. Cas stops by the fireplace for a minute, sticking out his hands to warm himself, before coming to meet Dean in the entryway. </p><p>“You didn’t tell me Sam was coming,” Cas says, frowning. And before Dean can utter even a syllable of explanation, Cas gathers Dean's face into his hands and presses a soft kiss to his lips. Dean’s <em>first</em> thought, before he can even register what’s happening, is that it’s nice, warm. But then, he realizes, and he turns his head away, breaking the already-chaste kiss. </p><p>Sam says nothing, but Dean can tell by the way he’s biting back a grin that he will have a lot to say about it later. Shit. This wasn’t...this is already so complicated and it hasn’t even been three hours yet. He and Cas are in a relationship? Dean feels himself go red.</p><p>Cas reaches down and grabs Dean’s hand. All Dean can do is stare at the place where they connect, awe-stricken. “Are you alright?” Cas asks, his voice deepening. If Dean weren’t looking down, he bets he could see that piercing gaze he gets when he’s trying to guess how Dean’s feeling. </p><p>Dean just nods. The closeness is too much for him. Cas looks at Sam like he’s remembering that he’s there again. He leans into Dean’s ear. “We’ll talk later.” A shiver runs up Dean’s spine.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p> Sam and Dean sit at the dark oak breakfast bar, and neither mentions that they’re from a different universe. Cas takes a couple ladle-fulls from the large pot on the stove and puts them into two bowls, setting them down on the bar. Cas leans against the counter, waiting for each of them to try what he’s made. </p><p>Without hesitation, Dean digs in. Cas made pot roast, and he tries to get a bit of carrot, potato and meat all into the first bite. He moans in approval, and Cas grins. “You said you liked the way I made it last time, so I repeated the recipe exactly. It’s to your liking?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Dean says, mouth full. Cas’ eyes brighten. “So, uh, you going to have any? I know you don’t eat, but…”</p><p>“No, not tonight,” Cas says. He waits a beat, and once he’s convinced that both Dean and Sam are enjoying their dinners, he rounds the corner, taking a seat on the stool next to Dean. </p><p>Dean side-eyes Cas, who’s watching him, head propped up by his hand. Dean tenses. Is he going to try and kiss him? Touch him? “You’re quiet,” Cas says softly. “How was your day?”</p><p>Dean gives an elbow to Sam, but Sam only shakes his head, putting his head down into his food. Great. He’s no help. “Uhh...It was weird, Cas.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Just Relax</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After dinner, Sam tries to leave. Dean grabs his arm. He’s not getting off that easy. “What was up with that? You totally hung me out to dry back there.”</p><p>“I dunno. Seemed like a lovers’ affair. Didn’t want to get involved,” Sam says, stifling laughter. </p><p>Dean crosses his arms. “What’s so funny?” </p><p>“<em>You</em>. You’re all...flustered. It’s cute.” </p><p>“I’m not—” He’s <em>not</em>. Dean’s eyes flit from Cas to Sam.“I’m not flustered.” He reaches to straighten his shirt and remembers he’s wearing a starched, white button-up. His hands fall away quickly. </p><p>“Right. You know, it’s okay...Like I’m not—I won’t... ” Sam runs a hand through his hair, shifting closer to the door.</p><p>“What’s okay?” Sam better not be saying what he thinks he’s saying.</p><p>Sam gestures over to Castiel, who’s lounging by the fire in the living room. “You know...if you…”</p><p>“If I what?”</p><p>Sam groans in frustration. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I know you don’t have a PhD or anything, but you can’t be <em>that</em> clueless.” Dean crosses his arms, brooding, and Sam changes tact. “It’s just...<em>maybe</em>, if you and Other Dean have some...things in common...That’s alright with me.”</p><p>Dean shrugs away from his brother. “Jesus, Sammy. <em>Stop</em>. Cas is just...Cas is my friend.”</p><p>“I mean, obviously not this one.” Sam says with a nod to the living room.</p><p>“Watch it.”</p><p>“Okay, sorry.” Sam holds up his palms in defeat. </p><p>“Hey do you think I’ve got someone back home at my apartment?” Dean shoves him. Sam laughs. “Alright, fine. I guess I’ll leave you two...buddies alone, then.”</p><p>Dean really wants to kill him. “Tomorrow we need to work on finding some archangel grace so we can open the rift.”</p><p>“Alright,” Sam agrees, hand poised by the doorknob. “But until then,” he says, smirking, “enjoy yourself.”</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>The far wall of the living room has got floor to ceiling windows, and Dean finds himself standing at one of the panes, looking down below at the flurry of lights, eyes rising to see the tops of buildings disappear into low-hanging clouds. No stars here, he notices. </p><p>Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, turning to his new housemate. “Cas,” Dean breathes, “You scared me.” Castiel says nothing, staring. He frowns. “What?”</p><p>“What are you thinking about? You look...forlorn.”</p><p>Well, that’s one way to put it. Dean faces the window again. “Do you...do you like it here?” Dean almost wants to add a “with me” at the end, but he can’t bring himself to. </p><p>“Where you go, I will follow,” Cas says. He reaches around Dean’s torso to hug him from behind, his head resting in the crook of Dean’s neck. </p><p>Dean squirms away, heart racing. He catches the look in Cas’ eyes—hurt. He looks down. “S-sorry,” Dean says, scratching at his ear. “Guess I’m...not myself today. He attempts a smile, but has a feeling it falls flat.</p><p>Castiel tilts his head, and his look is so stony that Dean can’t read it. After what seems like an eternity of this, he speaks.“Something happened. You’re...What’s wrong?”</p><p><em>Nothing</em>, Dean thinks, <em>I’m just in an alternate reality where my best friend and I are together and I run an international corporation. Nothing wrong here.</em> The bitterness falls away when he looks into Castiel’s eyes. He softens. “I’m just...overwhelmed, I think. A lot...going on.” </p><p>That’s vague enough, right?</p><p>Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand and brings it up to his chest, cradling it. He pulls Dean close. It’s...intimate, and Dean thinks he should pull away. Just on principle, right? He’s here under false pretenses. But he does nothing. Cas’ hands are warm, and the rough pad of his thumb caresses the back of Dean’s hand. He brings Dean’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it, tenderly. </p><p>Dean freezes, unsure of what to do, and before he can reconsider pulling his hand away, Castiel lets him go with a sigh. Dean’s hand drops to his side. “Come to bed,” he says, “You’ll feel better.”</p><p>Though there’s no hint of innuendo in Cas’ voice, Dean still panics. He couldn’t...He couldn’t share a <em>bed</em> with <em>Cas.</em> That’s...It would just be leading him on, wouldn’t it? The poor guy doesn’t know the difference between his Dean and this Dean. And, unfortunately, this Dean doesn’t...He loves Cas, just not like that. </p><p>Dean swallows. “I think...I think I need to...sleep alone tonight. Okay?” </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>~~</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Dean wakes up to the smell of bacon, and he rolls onto his side, startled by the way his pajamas—they’re <em>silk</em>—slide on his skin. Usually, he just sleeps in his briefs and a t-shirt, but he couldn’t <em>not</em> try them on. The bed, he realizes, is enormous. He hadn’t really noticed in the dark, but now, with the sunlight streaming in from the glass balcony doors, he sees how empty it looks.</p><p>Maybe if Cas had slept here, he wouldn’t have noticed. </p><p>Dean pulls the blankets off of himself and plants his feet firmly on the hardwood. He expects it to be freezing, but it’s pleasantly warm. The floors must be heated. Add that to the list of unnecessary comforts Other Dean enjoys. Despite the frivolity of it, Dean smiles. </p><p>He decides to follow his senses to the kitchen, when his phone begins to buzz on the nightstand. It lights up, and a picture of him and Sam as kids, hugging, pops up on the screen. </p><p><em>SAMMY</em>, it reads. </p><p>For a moment, Dean does nothing. He just looks at it, in awe. Dean has almost no childhood pictures of him and Sam. Just memories. Not a lot of good ones, either. He wonders if there’s more of them in the phone and if he could print them out, take them with him back to his world. It doesn’t matter if they’re not <em>his</em>—they’re real. </p><p>Taking another second to marvel, Dean unlocks the phone with a swipe. “Sam?”</p><p>“How are you? Is everything...okay?” He appreciates that Sam doesn’t mention it; neither does he.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s all fine. What about you?”</p><p>“Good. No surprise roommates or anything…” Sam pauses, like he’s waiting for Dean to get mad at him. If Dean’s honest, he’s not that mad. This is a pretty cushy situation he’s found himself in—as far as...situations go. <em>Not</em> that he’d ever admit it. “So, I’ve been doing a lot of research. About us, HunterCorp.”</p><p>Dean hears a faint voice from the kitchen. Someone’s singing. No, <em>Cas</em> is singing. While he cooks. He tunes Sam out, listening to see if he can make out the lyrics. “...Dean?”</p><p>Dean clears his throat. “What?”</p><p>“Uhh, you still there?”</p><p>Dean straightens himself. “Yeah. What did you find?”</p><p>“Well…not much. It looks like the public knows about supernatural creatures, but a lot of stuff must still be secret. I couldn’t find anything on angel grace, not even on the dark web. There’s some speculation about a vague...essence I guess, but nothing concrete.”</p><p>“Okay, then what do we do?”</p><p>“Well, this Sam’s computer password is the same as mine, so I went through his stuff, and...wow.” Dean hears a sound on the other end, Sam shuffling papers around. Sam takes a breath. “Okay, so like, all the stuff from the bunker—most of it’s been digitized in encrypted files, but that’s not all that’s in here. There are <em>new</em> studies. By HunterCorp. From this year, last year, going back since the company was founded in ‘06.”</p><p>“What, like experiments?”</p><p>“Some of them. Like, there was one conducted a couple years ago to see if they could turn a vampire human again after it's already fed. And get this—it was <em>successful</em>. They’ve figured out tons of other stuff that we don’t even have a clue about.”</p><p>Curing a vamp that's fed? Now, that is definitely something Dean has to see. He considers asking Sam to elaborate, but he figures he should be most worried about getting home. He tries to make a mental note to ask him about it later, though. “Anything on archangel grace?”</p><p>“Well, I found a, uh, an...inventory I think. A list of all the supernatural artifacts and, uh, ingredients in their possession.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“Says they’ve got two grace samples...But we don’t know if they’re from archangels.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>Sam pauses, and Dean hears him typing, blowing a trilling breath through his lips in focus. “Uh...in a compound in DC.” </p><p>Dean sighs. “Great. Is everything else useful under lock and key?”</p><p>“Well...maybe not for us? I mean, it’s our company, right?”</p><p>“Sammy, I think you’re underestimating the douchery of the federal government.” Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, keep me posted.”</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p> Dean slinks into the kitchen, wobbling a bit, nose guiding him to the breakfast bar. He sits with a heavy <em>plop</em>. </p><p>If Cas notices, he makes no indication. His back is to Dean, flipping an omelette in a skillet. He hums, swaying to the tune of his own melody, and Dean marvels for a moment, eyes fixed on the linen apron string fastened around the small of his back. </p><p>“What song is that?” Dean asks, for no other reason than curiosity, some odd longing for Cas to turn and look at him. </p><p>Cas stalls, head jerking to the side to see Dean in his periphery. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before returning to the stove, pressing the spatula against the eggs with a <em>hss</em>. “Awake?” he asks, with a soft lilt. Dean searches for disappointment, displeasure, but he can’t find any. </p><p>“Awake,” Dean agrees, drumming his fingers on the table. Did Cas make every meal for him? Who taught him how to cook? And how’d he get so <em>good</em> at it?</p><p>“It’s Enochian,” Cas says. “It roughly translates to: The sun sits high and proud in the sky. We are not worthy.”</p><p>Whatever differences there might be between this Cas and the one back home, they’re both profound. “What’s the plan for today?”</p><p>Cas lets out a light chuckle as he transfers the omelette onto a plate beside the stove. He piles some bacon on before turning to face Dean completely, fork in hand. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, conveying what Dean thinks must be some sort of gentle pity and places the food in front of him. “No plan.” Castiel says, sternly. “No work. Just...relax, alright?”</p><p>Cas reaches forward to cup Dean’s cheek in his hand. Dean shudders, but Cas is looking at him so intensely that he doesn’t think to move away. He just...looks. “I love you.” Castiel says. </p><p>With a nervous chuckle, Dean looks down to his plate. He picks up his fork and shovels a bite of eggs in his mouth. “No work. Got it,” he says, refusing to meet Cas’ eyes again. </p><p>They better find that grace soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. It's All Starting To Bloom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a rich guy, Dean figured Other Dean would have some gaudy apartment that took up an entire street block. And it’s certainly big—like, scream-and-there’d-be-an-echo big, there’s no denying that, but it’s also cozy. It’s not a bright, clean white like the inside of the HunterCorp building. It’s muted, calming—deep browns and greens—a buffer to the busy world outside the windows.</p><p>Dean settles into the leather couch in the living room and sighs a bit at how it invites him in, accommodating the curve of his back. He opens the laptop that he found in the office and tries his own password, a laugh of triumph escaping him when it works. He’s about to open the file library to see if he can find anything Sam couldn’t, but he finds himself opening a browser page instead.</p><p>His hand hovers over the keyboard for a moment, before typing <em>Dean Winchester</em> in the search bar. A drop-down menu appears beside his name and he frowns at it. It must be the most-searched phrases that go with his name.</p><p>
  <em>Dean Winchester <strong>huntercorp</strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean Winchester<strong> married</strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean Winchester <strong>husband</strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean Winchester<strong> age</strong></em>
</p><p><em>Husband?</em> He and Cas aren’t married, are they? He clicks the second option.</p><p>
  <em>About 1,567,823 results (0.67 seconds)</em>
</p><p>One million results?</p><p>
  <span class="u">📰 <strong>Top Stories</strong></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">HunterCorp CEO Announces Engagement to Long-time Partner James Novak</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Dean Winchester Reveals Engagement In Social Media Post</span>
</p><p>James Novak? Right, so people don’t know Cas is an angel. That makes sense.</p><p>Also, he and Cas are engaged. Engaged?</p><p>
  <em>To be married?</em>
</p><p>It’s fine. It’s not his problem. It’s not his business either. If his doppelganger wants to marry an angel, so be it. He holds up his left hand. There’s no ring. Odd. Then, his hand goes to his neck, where he pulls a distressed leather chain out from under his pajama shirt.</p><p>Sure enough, a gold band dangles from it. He runs his fingers over the metal, noticing an engraving on the underside:</p><p>
  
  
  
</p><p>a pair of wings.</p><p>Does Sam know about this?</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>After hearing nothing from Sam, Dean gets antsy. It’s well into the afternoon, and he and Cas haven’t spoken since that morning. He isn’t sure what Cas usually does to entertain himself—maybe he helps with hunts—but he seems content to sit across the living room next to the bookcase and read. It’s a fascinating sight to watch, Cas in his undoubtedly expensive loungewear, legs crossed over leather upholstery, his face drawing up in a smile every so often.</p><p>Maybe it’s some kind of ritual, and Dean just doesn’t know. Maybe that’s why Cas will steal looks at him that Dean can see out of the corner of his eye, looks that are gone by the time he can check, yet are marked by a hint of mischief on the angel’s face.</p><p>It’s some kind of code he can’t read, and Dean isn’t sure if that should bother him. It shouldn’t, right?</p><p>He’s been trying to go through the files on his laptop for an hour, but there’s no actual organization system. Things are just there. A search for keywords in documents does nothing, and he abandons the effort way too soon.</p><p>Dean looks up at Cas, heaving a sigh. Right, so if he and Cas—if they’re <em>engaged</em>, well he probably knows everything Other Dean knows, right? Trust, effective communication, and all that. And on top of that, he’s an angel; he just <em>knows</em> stuff. He’s got that weird radio antenna in his head, doesn’t he?</p><p>So, Dean should just ask. It’s Cas.</p><p>“Hey Cas, we got a twenty on any archangels?”</p><p>Castiel looks up, bemused. He puts his book down. “A twenty?”</p><p>Dean clears his throat. “Like, do we have tabs on any?”</p><p>Cas narrows his eyes. “This sounds work-related.”</p><p><em>Is he serious right now?</em> “Well, do we?” Cas stands, placing his book down on the seat. He tilts his head.</p><p>“You’re forgetting our agreement,” Castiel says, gruffly. The tone is notably different from the one he used that morning, and Dean decides he must be missing something.</p><p>“Are you angry?”</p><p>Cas raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been waiting now, for hours. And you haven’t said a word. And now you’re asking me about archangels—” Though his voice rises in volume, it seems to shrink in confidence.</p><p>“Alright,” Dean blurts, not thinking much of anything except that he wants the conversation to be over, to slink back into his awkward silence. “Forget I asked.”</p><p>“Oh,” Castiel says. His shoulders relax, and whatever tension had been gathering in his voice dissolves. “You forgot,” he whispers. “Well, I’ll leave you to your administrative duties, then.”</p><p>Cas looks down a moment. Then, he blinks away, the gentle whoosh of his wings echoing in Dean’s ears.</p><p>
  <em>Great.</em>
</p><p>It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and he’s already ruining an engagement.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Cas,” he mutters. “I’m really...<em>not</em> myself.”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>After an hour of sulking about his inability to recognize the nuances of Other Dean’s union, Dean <em>calls himself a car</em>. Because, why not? But also because he is starting to get restless, even in this huge apartment. It’s at times like these that he envies Cas. Dean wishes he could just teleport away, too.</p><p>Dean thinks for a moment that it’s weird Sam hasn’t called, but then he guesses they only just spoke this morning. The thing is, he knows he needs to be doing what he does—<em>working the case</em>, gathering intel, and trying some ridiculous hail-mary plan to get out, get back home.</p><p><em>Back home to what</em>?</p><p>He always thought that he hated the quiet because it’s eerie. Quiet is the thing that happens <em>before </em>the loud noises, the screams—right before someone gets the drop on you. But now, silence doesn’t feel that way. It’s suffocating, sure, but in a way that’s frustratingly calm.</p><p>He gets dressed, fully disappointed with the choices in the closet. Eventually, he settles on a black button-down, some jeans that are a <em>little</em> too tight for his taste, and a big, black overcoat to hide all of it.</p><p>“Hi, Dean,” the driver says when Dean eventually slides into the backseat.</p><p>“Hi,” he mumbles.</p><p>“Usual place?” the guy asks, peering at Dean through the rearview.</p><p>Dean was just going to ask to go to Sam’s place, so he could ask him why he hasn’t checked in yet. But then, he’s probably in heaven with all of his research materials. Anyway, if Other Dean has a “usual place,” maybe it’ll cheer this Dean up too.</p><p>His interest is officially piqued, so he says, “Yep. Usual place.”</p><p>The ride is bumpy, accompanied by more than a few abrupt stops, the driver—Dean should really learn his name—cursing under his breath to the backdrop of horns blaring. Dean’s stomach churns at the thought of maneuvering Baby through this hellhole.</p><p>But as they get farther from the epicenter of the city, the rattle of the car turns to a gentle rumble, and it lulls Dean into a relaxation he hasn’t felt in a long time. He realizes he’s been clenching his jaw, his hands curled up into fists. He lets them go, leaning his head against the window.</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>The car pulls up to an unassuming street block, and it looks quaint, save for the garbage bins toppled over on the curb. “Have a nice stroll, Mr. Winchester.”</p><p>He looks around, not seeing much except lined brownstone houses, people power walking to wherever it is they need to be, the sounds of dogs barking from no discernible location.</p><p>Dean’s stopped in front of a black gate left slightly ajar. Next to it, the sign reads:</p><p><strong>BOTANICAL GARDENS</strong>. So, this is his “usual place,” huh? He pushes the gate all the way open.</p><p>It’s odd how immediately different he feels once inside. The whole place is green, covered in vines, plants, flowers. He starts down the path, taking in the foliage. There’s a wooden house off to the side, draped in vines. At least, it looks like a house—he doubts anyone actually lives in it—but he has an urge to see what's inside.</p><p>He continues walking along the trail, marked out with embedded stones, and for a moment, he forgets why he’s there. Really, what is he <em>doing</em>? Then, he remembers, and it’s like ice in his veins. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard.</p><p>It’s not fair.</p><p>While Dean’s been clawing, fighting, <em>surviving</em>—while he’s been covered in blood and bruises and soaked in brokenness, regret—this guy’s been going on walks. Looking at goddamn fucking flowers. Asking his <em>driver</em> to flit him around the city.</p><p>He feels like he wants to scream.</p><p>But then, he looks up. And there’s Cas, in his trenchcoat on the bench, looking at the fucking tulips. He swallows. “Cas.”</p><p>Cas looks up and smiles, patting the space next to him on the bench. Without another thought, Dean sits, looking ahead at the tulips—yellow and red. “Still too cold for the bees,” Castiel says with a sigh, “But look at it—it’s all starting to bloom.”</p><p>Dean turns and looks at him, and it’s strange. He looks so...content. It reminds Dean of when Cas first woke up from his coma, but still, it’s different. There’s more assurance, firmness to it. “I’m sorry,” Dean whispers.</p><p>Castiel turns to him. “It’s alright. My fault, I suspect. I should have reminded you.”</p><p>“Well, flying away was a little dramatic…” Dean starts, hoping Cas will accept it as levity. Though, he’s still not sure why this alternate Cas’ opinion means that much to him.</p><p>“I apologize.”</p><p>“No, it’s…” Dean reaches out on the bench into the space between them. “I’m sorry.” Really, all of this was because of him, one way or another. He feels like a liar. Well, he <em>is</em> one. But what is he supposed to do? Tell the truth?</p><p>What will he think when he and Other Dean get switched back? How will it feel to know it was all…</p><p>Before he has the chance to finish his thought spiral, Cas speaks. “Dean?”</p><p>Dean blinks at him, and he notices his hand begin to tremble. Castiel notices, putting his hand over Dean’s the way he had last night. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Do you ever feel as if you have lived many lives?” Cas is looking at the flowers again, but Dean’s eyes are on him, like he might miss something if he looks away.</p><p>“Sometimes,” Dean says.</p><p>“That’s how I feel. When we’re here.” Castiel chuckles a little to himself. “I’ve been...a soldier, a savior, a mortal, a…” He glances at Dean.</p><p>How much of what happened in his universe happened here? Did Cas raise his Dean from hell? Did he lose his grace and become human?</p><p>“A lover.” Lover. The word is so tender on Cas’ lips. Again, another intimacy not meant for him. “And here? I’m just a humble observer of creation.”</p><p>“There was nothing here,” Cas continues, gesturing with his free hand to the garden around them. “Just...asphalt, weeds.” He pauses, looking Dean in the eyes. “But then, someone decided something should grow. And so it did.”</p><p>Dean feels like the air’s been knocked out of him, feeling a harsh pang in his chest. He opens his mouth to say something.</p><p>
  <em>Bzz.</em>
</p><p>It’s the phone from inside his pocket. He pulls it out, and of course:</p><p><em>SAMMY</em>.</p><p>Dean has half a mind to ignore it. Hell, he wants to, but Castiel peeks over at the screen.</p><p>“It’s Sam,” Cas says, “You should answer them.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi everyone! I hope you're enjoying reading so far! I've loved reading all your comments! I will continue to post chapters once a week--maybe sooner if I'm feeling wild ;)--so stay tuned.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Trouble in Paradise?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for spoiling me with the comments! I get unreasonably excited for every single one.</p><p>Sorry for the wait for this one. Happy Valentine's Day :) &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes Dean several seconds to realize that Cas, seemingly intentionally, referred to Sam as “them,” but he doesn’t have time to react before Sam’s voice comes over the phone. </p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>Dean clears his throat, side-eyeing Cas, who’s looking at him intently. “Sammy, what’s up?” </p><p>“Well, I’m at your apartment, and you’re not here.”</p><p>“What do you mean you’re—Wait, how’d you get in?”</p><p>“I have a key,” Sam says impatiently.</p><p>“Of course you do,” Dean breathes.</p><p>“Hey, focus. I went back to HunterCorp headquarters and they showed me the records room.” Dean hears shuffling in the background, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing. Is Sam seriously raiding his fake kitchen?</p><p>“The what?” Cas tilts his head at Dean, frowning, and Dean wonders if his counterpart would’ve left Sam on speaker. </p><p>“It’s this, like, room where they keep records that are too sensitive to be digitized. You have to wear gloves and everything. It’s not climate-controlled like the archival room, but I’m definitely going to have to get a look in there lat—”</p><p>“Alright, egghead, get to the point.”</p><p>“I have a plan. Just...get back here soon.”</p><p>“Copy.” Dean hangs up and turns to Castiel. “We’ve got to get back. It’s import—”</p><p>And then, before Dean can finish, Cas has grabbed onto his arm, and he’s sitting back on the couch in the apartment, watching Sam pace back and forth in the living room. Sam jumps back when he sees them.</p><p> “Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, shuddering, “Warn me next time.”</p><p>Cas puts his head down in mock-shame, a smile washing over him. “Sorry,” he says. </p><p>“You—” Dean starts, but then he stalls, taking in Cas’ playfulness, and he doesn’t know how to end the sentence. </p><p>“Dean.” Sam says, his voice muffled. Dean turns away from Cas. He squints for a second, orienting himself, and realizes Sam is eating a bowl of cereal, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other—he’s shoveling his face with it. </p><p>“Dude.” </p><p>“What?” Sam says, swallowing a bite. “I got hungry.”</p><p>“Whatever,” Dean grumbles. “Well, we flew in from across town, so what is it?”</p><p>Sam takes another bite of his cereal and Dean gives him a look as a silent <em>really? </em>Castiel lets out a little laugh beside him and Dean startles. </p><p>Sam gives in and sets the bowl on the mantle, taking a sip from the bowl as he does. He wipes his mouth. “We gotta go to DC.”</p><p>“What, now?”</p><p>“Yeah. Or like, tomorrow. The headquarters there has the, uh,” Sam looks from Cas to Dean. “The stuff.”</p><p>Cas blinks. He turns to Dean. “What stuff?” he asks, the amusement his voice had carried before traded for confusion. Sam opens his mouth, then closes it, backing up to lean against the stone of the fireplace. “Dean?”</p><p>“Uhh…” Dean begins. He looks to Sam, who only shakes his head. <em>Shit.</em> He sighs and turns to Castiel. “We need archangel grace for a spell. It’s...important.”</p><p>Dean sees Sam mouth something like <em>why would you—</em> out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores it. He faces Cas. “Sorry I didn’t tell you before.” And he is sorry. He really, truly is. </p><p>For a moment, Cas says nothing, and Dean feels his heartbeat quicken in his chest. “Dean…” he says finally, “We agreed you’d take a break from work. After the… I thought you were doing better but it’s clear you’re not coping.”</p><p>Coping? With what? “Cas, I—”</p><p>“It’s like you haven’t been listening to Dr. Chen. You use work to <em>avoid </em>dealing with—”</p><p>Oh god, is he seeing a shrink? “It’s just for—”</p><p>Cas stands, towering over him. “That’s what you say every other time, Dean. ‘Just for a day. One more lead. One more hunt.’” Cas’ voice falls. “You promised this time would be different.”</p><p>At least Other Dean isn’t perfect? Maybe it’s not all his fault. Either way, he made it worse. “Cas…” he tries.</p><p>“Sam can go.”</p><p>“What?” Dean stammers.</p><p>“What?” Sam echoes from behind Cas. </p><p>Cas folds his arms over his chest. “They’re a grown adult. They can go to the headquarters alone.”</p><p>So, the “they” thing is definitely one hundred percent intentional. Another thing to deal with after his (not his) engagement explodes. “But what if—”</p><p>“They don’t need you,” Castiel says, stealing the words right from Dean’s mouth. He turns to Sam. “Do you need him to go with you?”</p><p>Sam gapes, eyes wide. This Cas is...authoritative. It reminds Dean of how his Cas was when they first met. Sam shakes his head no. <em>Traitor.</em> </p><p>“Alright,” Dean caves. What’s he supposed to say? “Fine. I won’t go.”</p><p>Cas softens, letting out a breath. He shuffles over to Dean and leans over to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Just want you to be okay,” he mumbles into Dean’s hair.</p><p>It tingles.</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>When Cas goes into the other room, Sam sits down next to him. He’s not wearing anything weird like yesterday, just a plain t-shirt and jeans. It’s almost something Sam would actually wear. “So…” Sam says, “Trouble in paradise?”</p><p>Dean rakes his hands over his face. “Don’t, Sam. Just don’t.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Dean shifts a bit to face Sam. “What’s with the “they” stuff?”</p><p>“What? Oh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck. “Right, yeah...That’s just what people call me. Or, I guess...Other me?”</p><p>Dean shakes his head. “So...what? What does that mean?”</p><p>“Well, after I heard a few people call me that, I looked myself up on Twitter—”</p><p>Dean groans. “You’re on Twitter? Gross.”</p><p>“You are too, Dean.”</p><p>“Wh—” Right, of course he is.</p><p>“<em>Anyway</em>, so Sam’s pronouns are he/they and he identifies as non-binary. He wrote a whole essay about it. It was really thought provoking…”  </p><p>“But people still only call you they? Not he…?” At this point, Dean can’t actually tell if he’s making sense or not. He hopes he is. He’s not trying to be a dick. </p><p>“In the essay, it says it’s a problem with intimacy, so professionally people that aren’t his family or don’t know him well should call him they. Then there’s a whole thing about gender-neutral phrasing like, ‘sibling’ instead of ‘brother.’”</p><p>“Oh…” Dean takes a second to let this marinate. “Hey, Sammy...if you ever want to, you know, <em>talk</em> to me about anything…” Jesus, is he screwing this up?</p><p>“No, Dean, I...that’s just. I’m still…” Sam says, gesturing towards his chest.</p><p>“Right, yeah of course.” Dean lets out a breath. </p><p> Sam gets up and starts wringing his hands. He walks over to the window, facing away from Dean. “So, there’s something I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to say in front of Cas.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The grace. I’m gonna have to steal it.”</p><p>Dean’s about to say something akin to <em>hell no</em> when there’s a knock at the door. </p><p>“I got it,” Cas says, emerging from the bedroom. </p><p>Dean freezes, staring ahead. “Dean…” Sam says, “You okay?”</p><p>Then, there’s the sound of the door opening, a crisp, “Hello,” from Cas.</p><p>And an unmistakable, “‘Sup, bitches!”</p><p>Dean whips his head around. </p><p>Charlie.</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Sam and Dean stomp into the entryway to meet her, confused and excited. Dean immediately wraps her into a tight hug. He knows she’s a different Charlie, but already there’s something so familiar about her. “Hey, kiddo,” he says. </p><p>Charlie rubs a hand over Dean’s back, laughing a little. “Hey, yourself, big guy.”</p><p>They break the hug, and Dean steps back to take her in. She’s wearing a pastel pink pantsuit, and it’s incredibly elegant. A HunterCorp lanyard—which predictably names her as Head of IT—dangles from her neck, She waves a bottle of wine. “I got the overpriced stuff.” She winks. “Don’t worry, you can reimburse me later.”</p><p> </p><p>After she hugs Sam and Cas, she sets the wine down on the kitchen counter as Castiel strides into the kitchen and opens a cabinet full of wine glasses. “Alright,” she continues, “Who’s ready for cowboy movie night?”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>They’re well into <em>Tombstone</em>, which plays loudly on the projector screen that descended like magic from the living room ceiling, its score filling up the room with suspenseful tension. Dean’s shoulder to shoulder with Cas, who’s shoveling an alarming amount of popcorn into his face. Once in a while, he tilts the bowl over to Dean, asking, “<em>want some?</em>” and then Dean digs his hand in. </p><p>They’re at the part where Doc Holliday pulls out his gun. He twirls it and shoots Johnny Ringo before he even has a chance to react, putting the gun back into his holster in one swift, smooth motion. </p><p>Charlie gasps next to him, elbowing Sam, who laughs. She pours herself another glass of wine.</p><p>Dean allows himself to settle in. He likes this. It feels...normal. It’s something they’ve all done before, and if Dean closes his eyes, it’s like he’s back home. Then Cas reaches down to hold his hand, and he’s in the present again. Suddenly, the movie feels off. His pulse quickens.</p><p>It’s not like—he’s not some weirdo that <em>minds </em>touching his best friend. It’s just...usually not so <em>tender</em> and he… It’s not <em>his</em> Cas, is it? Still, it’s...<em>Cas</em>.</p><p>When the scene ends, Dean clears his throat and mumbles, “Bathroom, be right back.”</p><p>“Should we pause it?” Cas asks, frowning.</p><p>“No, no, you go ahead,” he says, standing, freeing himself from the comfortable warmth of proximity. He stretches. </p><p>Charlie eyes him, taking another final gulp from her glass. She hums in agreement. “You know what?” she says, “Me too. Nature calls.”</p><p>Dean cocks his head at her for a second, confused, but then he remembers this place probably has like five bathrooms and he just doesn’t know where all of them are. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean slips into his bedroom, and Charlie’s right behind him. So, the bathroom thing was a lie for her, too. He’s glad for it, though. She closes the door once they’re both inside, and whispers, “What’s up?”</p><p>She stumbles over toward the nightstand and turns on the lamp, providing the room with a dim, warm haze of light and hops onto the bed. She looks over at him with a kind smile, and he feels guilty. </p><p>Charlie rubs the space next to her on the bed, and Dean sighs. He walks over and joins her. “You love cowboy movie night.”</p><p>Dean shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“Hey,” she says, nudging him with her shoulder, “Don’t lie to me. I’m a genius, remember?”</p><p>Dean smiles at that, but it falls just as quick. “What is it? Is it about the wedding?”</p><p>Great. He doesn’t need another reminder about <em>that</em>. “No, I just…” He takes a breath. “I’m just...I’m disappointing him. I can’t give him what he wants.” He feels heavier once he says it, and he knows it’s probably the most honest thing he’s said since he got here. </p><p>“Don’t say that. He loves you. You’re all he wants.” Dean huffs a bitter laugh. <em>That’s the problem</em>, he thinks. “Do you think a celestial being sits down to watch a cowboy movie for just anyone?” </p><p>Dean raises an eyebrow. He guesses he’s never thought about it like that before. He thinks of something his Cas said to him once. <em>I did it—all of it—for you.  </em></p><p>She ruffles a hand through his hair. “Get it together, Champ.”</p><p>He has to admit it—she’s right. He <em>does </em>have to get it together. For everyone’s sake. </p><p>“Charlie…” he starts, “Charlie, what if…I made a promise, and I can’t keep it?”</p><p>She frowns, a deep worried line settling between her brows. “You don’t mean…”</p><p>Oh, right. “<em>No</em>, not about that, I...I told him I wouldn’t do something. But I think I have to.”</p><p>“What do you mean? Is it, like, a big thing?”</p><p>“I guess it is.”</p><p>“If you’re right...If you <em>have </em>to. Then he’ll understand.”</p><p>“You think so?” he asks. Dread settles in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>She rubs a hand over his back. “Yeah,” she says, the lilt in her voice calm and sure, “Yeah I do.”</p><p>He nods, grimacing. It’s all the confirmation he needs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Showtime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for your comments! I read every single one and if I haven't replied to you yet I'll get to it soon. Sorry for missing a week.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dean wakes the next morning, Cas is next to him. He lays on his back, hands resting on his chest. His eyes are closed, but Dean knows that if Cas is at full strength, he’s not asleep. He doesn’t move for a while, only peering at him through his eyelashes, not wanting Cas to know he’s awake. Cas hadn’t been there when he went to sleep.</p><p>Dean isn’t sure how he <em>should</em> feel about this, only how he does feel. The first word that comes to mind is<em> embarrassed</em>. Dean’s laying there, sprawled out on his stomach, half of his face buried into the pillow—it’s that soft, feathery kind that your head sinks right into—and he’s not wearing anything except for his underwear. Dean’s not sure about Cas, but he can see his bare shoulders sticking out from under the comforter, so he assumes the same for him.</p><p><em>It’s not weird</em>, he reminds himself, <em>They’re together.</em></p><p>But for Dean, it is. He still can’t fully wrap his head around it. He would get over it—he wants to, but it makes him...think too hard. He doesn’t like it. </p><p>He reaches up to rub his eyes, and Cas hums, a smirk forming on his face. “Awake?” he whispers. It’s the same thing he said yesterday at breakfast, in that same lilty tone, and it must be another one of their <em>things</em>.</p><p>“Awake,” Dean replies, groaning. </p><p>Cas opens his eyes and turns on his side to face Dean. He reaches out to trace the curve of Dean’s face with his fingers. His hand is warm, and Dean almost wants to lean into it, but he sits up. “Hey, Cas.” </p><p>Dean squints against the beams of light streaming in through the cracks in the curtains, and he remembers what he has to do. He looks down at Cas, who’s looking up at him, dazed yet sure. He’s got to make things right again. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean had told Cas that he was going to spend some time with Sam, to which Cas replied, “Okay, Dean,” with a sort of extinguished sigh.</p><p>He sits at Sam’s dining room table now, in a very whimsically decorated apartment. There’s a lot of weird, modern art on the walls that Dean can’t make sense of. The whole place is very white and clean, not anything like Other Dean’s place. Soft piano music plays throughout the house. </p><p>“Dude, what <em>is</em> that?” Dean asks, looking up. Sam pulls out his computer and shrugs. </p><p>“I think it’s on like a motion sensor.”</p><p>“Whatever. What’d you want to show me?”</p><p>Sam scoots his chair closer to Dean’s to show him the screen. On it is a picture of the HunterCorp headquarters. It looks less obnoxious than the one in New York, not so...loud. Though, even from just the websearch image, he can tell it’s armed to the max on the inside—it’s made out of that old stone that all those state buildings are. “So, this is where we’re going.” Sam pauses to pull up another window, which is opened to a scanned document. “And...this is what we’re getting.”</p><p>Dean squints at the screen, trying to read it. The music rattles around in his head, and he blinks, trying again. “Hey, can you turn that off?”</p><p>“Turn what off?”</p><p>“The, the piano, whatever.” Sam pulls out his phone and taps it; the music stops. Dean exhales, refocusing his eyes. </p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>SAMPLE #929-A </strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Facility:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>DC, RM 526-S</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Clearance:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>Classified.</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>“Angelic grace.”</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Origin:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>Archangel Gabriel</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Description:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The subject was willing to offer a sample of his grace in exchange for [...]<strong>*</strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>*this portion of the report has been redacted </em>
</p><p>Sam points to the room number. “That’s where we need to go.”</p><p>Dean shrugs. “Okay, then let’s do this.” </p><p>“The only thing is...we don’t have clearance.”</p><p>Of course they don’t. “It’s our own company.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know…See where it says—here under the sample number. ‘Dash A.’”  </p><p>“Yeah, so what?”</p><p>“A is the class for the most sensitive and powerful artifacts. They’re federally-controlled. Did you get the thing?” Dean digs into the inside of his jacket and pulls out an ID card. He puts it on the table. Sam does the same. “Okay so—” </p><p>“How did you find out all this stuff so quick?”</p><p>Sam shrugs. “Some of it’s public knowledge, so I could just look it up. Also, turns out I have a secretary? So I just asked him the rest.”</p><p>Dean looks from Sam to the computer, then back again. “He didn’t think it was weird you were asking all that stuff?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe he did, but I’m his boss, so…”</p><p>“Right.” Dean keeps forgetting about that. Sam’s made a lot more progress with this than Dean has. So many things have been rattling through his brain in the past two days that he has no idea where to focus his energy. He’s grateful to Sam for taking the lead this time. </p><p>Dean’s usually great in a crisis, but this one’s...different. Completely different. He almost wishes there was a monster trying to kill him; at least then he’d know what to do.  But no, now he has to complete an alternate reality heist. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “How do we get there?”</p><p>Sam opens another tab on his computer—a confirmation page. “AmTrack.” Sam says. </p><p>Dean sighs. At least it’s not a goddamn plane.</p><p>
  <strong>~~ </strong>
</p><p>Dean sits across the table from Sam, drumming his fingers on it, his eyes locked on the blurry landscape running past the window. The train rattles underneath him, and he pulls at the collar of his dress shirt. He feels hot. “Dude.” Sam says, “Relax.”</p><p>“Tell me the number again.” Dean feels almost naked without his gun tucked into his waistband. They couldn’t bring any weapons because of the dumb metal detectors—not that it matters. They’d have to surrender their weapons once they got to the headquarters anyway. Dean tenses. Sam better know what the hell he’s talking about.</p><p>“We need to tell them we’re looking for artifact 171-A.” Sam raises his eyebrows at him, like <em>he’s</em> not taking it seriously enough. Dean glares.</p><p>“The demon blade. Why in the hell do we have to ask permission to use the demon blade?” God, Dean hates feds. Too much fucking protocol. In the time it takes them to file their precious forms, Dean could already have himself back home. </p><p>“Standard protocol is exorcism…Doesn’t matter. Point is, they won’t ask questions. Brian says we go down to DC pretty often for it.”</p><p>“Brian—Who the fuck’s Brian?”</p><p>Sam deadpans, and Dean guesses Sam’s already told him. “My secretary.” </p><p>How’s Dean supposed to remember the name of Sam’s fake secretary? He’s in the middle of something. “Well, <em>Brian</em> seems to know a lot of sensitive information,” Dean huffs. </p><p>“Hey, don’t diss Brian. He keeps everything running.”</p><p>Before Dean can respond, a train attendant walks up with a drink in her hands. She stalls in front of their table. “Bourbon on the rocks,” she says, setting it down in front of Dean. “Can I get you anything else?”</p><p>“Yeah, actually,” Dean says, looking at Sam pointedly, “Can I get another one of these for my, uh...sibling, please?”</p><p>The attendant nods. “Right away.” </p><p>As she leaves, Dean swirls the ice around in his glass before taking a swig. It burns his throat, and he relishes the feeling. He looks up and realizes that Sam’s been staring at him for the past couple of seconds, his face screwed up the way it gets when he can’t solve a problem. “What?”</p><p>“You—why...Why’d you call me that?” This is the first time all day Sam doesn’t look like he’s got it all figured out.</p><p>Dean shakes his head. “Call you what?”</p><p>“You know…”</p><p>Dean almost laughs. “What, sibling? That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?” Why’s he so weird all of the sudden?</p><p>“Yeah...yeah. Never mind.” Sam pulls out his laptop and averts his eyes, trying to hide his head behind the screen. </p><p>Dean can’t really tell, but he thinks Sam’s...smiling? Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out. He’s got a new message.</p><p><strong>Castiel </strong>😇❤️</p><p>
  <em>When can I expect you home?</em>
</p><p>Dean stares at the text for what feels like forever. He puts the phone facedown on the table and finishes the rest of his drink in one go. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean stills at the entrance to the building, waiting for Sam to catch up next to him. He grips the briefcase in his hand, tight. Sam pulls the door open, giving Dean a final look of acknowledgement. <em>Showtime</em>. </p><p>Dean paints a thin smile on his face, the one he does when he’s pretending to be a fed. He walks up to reception, past the security guards, like he owns the place—because he <em>does</em>—and sets his badge on the counter. Sam does the same. The man behind the desk takes the badges and scans them, his face expressionless. Dean taps his thumb on the counter impatiently. </p><p>After a few seconds, the guy hands the badges back. “Rodriguez,” he says, beckoning to a security guard, “Will you escort Mr. and Dr. Winchester, please?”</p><p>Another guy—with a very obvious gun in his holster—nods for them to follow him. Dean looks at Sam, who takes a breath. “Here we go,” Dean mumbles. They cross the lobby to a reinforced steel door and wait for Rodriguez, who’s wide, broad-shouldered and has at least an inch on Sam—to unlock it.  </p><p>Dean feels his phone buzz again against his leg, but he ignores it. The door opens with an audible <em>click</em>, and Dean almost startles. Sam seems unfazed, and he’s the first one to step through the doorway, straightening his jacket. </p><p>Dean follows, and they’re in a gray hallway. All concrete, no windows, no doors. Just an elevator at the end of it, and one of those buzzing, fluorescent lights that just won’t shut up. The door closes behind them, and Dean can feel Rodriguez looming behind him. “Right this way,” he says.</p><p>Dean and Sam start walking. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! More soon :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Cold Shoulder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I promise I didn't forget about you :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The elevator is quite a bit smaller than Dean would have liked. He and Sam are squished into the far corner, not out of necessity, but to keep as far away from the security guard as possible. The first thing Dean notices is the warding carved into the walls—angel and demon. Dean knows he’s neither, but his adrenaline still spikes when he catches sight of the devil’s trap on the floor. These guys aren’t fucking around. He wonders vaguely how much tax money got sunk into building this one particular elevator. </p><p>Rodriguez reaches over and presses the five button, pausing for a moment to type on a keypad just below the floor numbers, cupping his hand around it for privacy. The code is ten numbers long. Once he’s finished, the elevator whirs and they start moving. “Arms out,” Rodriguez says, nodding at them from the corner. </p><p>Sam obliges without question, and for a second, Dean’s caught off guard. But Sam’s right; obviously, they both need to make it look like they’ve done this all before. Dean paints on a friendly half-smile and pretends he’s bored, even though his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. He rolls up his sleeve, baring his forearm like Sam. </p><p>Rodriguez reaches into a black pouch on his toolbelt and pulls out a vial of what Dean presumes is holy water and a silver coin. He pours a few cold drops on his arm, then Sam’s before pressing the edge of the coin into them. He makes a hum of approval and returns the object to his belt.</p><p>When he’s done, the elevator dings. Dean pulls down his sleeve and straightens his suit jacket.</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Once they’re on the fifth floor, the security guard leaves them alone, pressing the button to close the elevator doors as they leave. Sam and Dean are met with a hallway not unlike the one they’d just been in, except this one is lined with metal doors. Each has a black card scanner on the door handle—it’s really the only thing differentiating the doors from the steel-gray walls.  </p><p>“What’s the number again?” Dean asks, gripping the suitcase. The box rattles around inside as he lurches forward, choosing a direction even though he’s not sure it’s right.”</p><p>“Five twenty six,” Sam says, trailing after him.</p><p>Dean lets out a little grunt in response as he glides through the hallway, eyes scanning the numbers above the doors. He knows he went the right way now, numbers ascending blurrily from 520, 522, 524…</p><p>“Twenty six.” Dean announces. He stops in front of the door and looks to Sam.</p><p>“It should be in there.” </p><p>Dean shakes his head. “It better be.” Dean waves his ID card in front of the scanner and it flashes green, lock clicking open.</p><p>The lights flicker on automatically, giving the room a dim glow. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t...this, exactly. It’s a large room, almost a warehouse—at least fifty yards in width—filled with rows and rows of...filing cabinets? No, not quite. Dean steps forward, tilting his head to get a better look. They’re...lockers, stacks of locked, unlabeled cubby-holes, each with its own keypad. </p><p>“Well,” Dean says, huffing a breath, “Where the hell is it?”</p><p>“Uh…” Sam darts his head back and forth, starting down one of the aisles. Dean deadpans, watching.</p><p>“You know where it is, right?”</p><p>“I know…” Sam says, his voice getting farther as he weaves through the lockboxes. “I know it’s in this room…”</p><p>“What, Brian didn’t tell you this one?” Sam doesn’t answer, but between rows, Dean can see him whip out his phone. </p><p>“Nine twenty nine!” Sam calls from across the room. Dean bounds over to meet him, a little annoyed that he couldn’t just say that before. He meets Sam at the beginning of an aisle marked <strong>900-950</strong>. Sam points to a small, rectangular lockbox. Sure enough, it’s labeled <strong>929-A. </strong>Sam’s hand hovers over the keypad. </p><p>“Sammy?”</p><p>“Yeah?” Sam says, shifting his eyes back and forth from Dean to the keypad.</p><p>“You gonna open it or what?”</p><p>“Uh...I didn’t think there’d be…”</p><p>Dean’s eyes narrow. “Be a what?”</p><p>“Keypad.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Sam. It’s not written down anywhere?”</p><p>Sam grunts, his finger hovering centimeters above the numbers. After a beat, his hand closes into a fist. He brings the pad of his hand down hard against the top of the lockboxes, the entire row of metal rattling and echoing in the expanse of the room. “No,” he says, leaning his weight against the compartments. He looks down. </p><p>“Are you—”</p><p>“Trust me,” Sam grits, “I’d have seen it.”</p><p>“Right…” Dean wrings his hands together, eyes trained on the keypad. “Why don’t we try something we’d set it as?”</p><p>At that, Sam only deflates further. He shakes his head. “We don’t know who set it. And if we get the code wrong, they’ll know we tried to open it.”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter. All we need to do is get the grace and get gone.” He pauses, nudging Sam on the shoulder. “C’mon, we just...do what we do best.”</p><p>Sam straightens, finally looking at Dean. “Yeah, but...What about <em>them</em>?”</p><p>
  <em>What about wh—Oh.</em>
</p><p>The sound of the door creaking open fills the room, and Sam and Dean’s bodies go rigid. They press their backs to the lockers. Dean’s hand goes to his waistband on impulse, and he winces when he grasps at air. “Goddammit,” he breathes, “Who the hell is that?”</p><p>Sam and Dean share a look, and Sam signals with his eyes for Dean to take a peek. They hear footsteps now, and the sound nears. Dean sidles up to the edge of the 900 row and pokes his head out just enough to peer around the edge. Nothing. </p><p>Then, just as he’s bracing himself against the metal, preparing to look again, he hears a voice: “Winchesters,” it says in an inscrutable tone, but that voice—<em>that</em>’s familiar. Sure enough, when Dean turns his head, Henriksen is standing at the end of the row. Sam and Dean peel themselves from the keypads to face him.</p><p>But what version of this guy is it? Is it the version that’s going to be a colossal, unrelenting pain in Dean’s ass? “I heard you both were here,” Henriksen says. He cocks his head to the side. “But you didn’t check in with the Bureau.” His face is warm enough, but Dean doesn’t buy it.</p><p>“Needed some supplies,” Sam says with a shrug. </p><p>“Yes, I heard—Demon blade?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says flatly, feeling his frustration tie a knot in his chest. Just like that, he’s ready for a fight. </p><p>Henriksen nods, drawing the motion out for far longer than is necessary. “Demon blade’s down in the five hundreds.” He points with his thumb for emphasis, friendly tone frosting at the edges. “But you two know that, of course.”</p><p>Dean digs his fingernails into his palm. “We were...in a hurry,” Sam supplies, “We’ll be sure to check in next time.”</p><p>Henriksen flashes a smile. “I know you will.” After that, their silent standoff lasts for several moments. Dean stares at Henriksen, refusing to be the first one to look away. “Well, let’s get you your demon blade then,” Henriksen says, breaking the tension, nodding left to the lower numbers. “If you’re in a hurry. Just—Don’t forget to do the write-up this time. ”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Thankfully, Sam and Dean are able to ride the elevator back to the first floor without need for a lengthy string of numbers. Dean turns the blade over in his hand and runs his fingers over the engravings, the ridges of serrated metal. He thinks for a moment that he’d like to stab Henriksen with it. Maybe it’d get rid of that smug look on his face. “Who does that guy think he is, talking to us like that?”</p><p>“The president of the FBI.” </p><p>“Whatever,” Dean says, “Tomato, tomahto. Still a dick. This is <em>our</em> headquarters.”</p><p>“It’s not—” Sam starts. “Whatever. We can come back and try again with the demon blade code.”</p><p>“Why don’t we just go back up right now?”</p><p>The elevator doors open, and the two of them step back into the gray, flickering corridor they started in. “It’ll look suspicious.” Sam says, speeding up his pace. Dean follows suit.</p><p>“I think that ship has sailed.”</p><p>Sam stops and glowers, staring ahead. “If something goes south, we could go to prison. I mean, that would fuck up everything for the...other me and you.”</p><p>“So what? They ain’t us.” The words feel wrong in Dean’s mouth. </p><p>Sam looks at Dean. “So you don’t care?”</p><p>Dean feels his pulse quicken. “Nope.”</p><p>“At all?”</p><p>Dean opens his mouth, but it snaps shut just as quick. This situation really isn’t fair...to anyone. Sam resumes walking. “Come on. I have an idea.”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Dean. Where have you gone? You’re not at Sam’s apartment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean, why are you giving me the cold shoulder?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My previous message contains an idiomatic expression. It means, “Why are you ignoring me?”</em>
</p><p>Dean slides the phone back into his coat pocket. They’re back on the train again and Dean can hear the demon blade sliding around, safe in the warded box on his briefcase—the one that was supposed to hold his ticket home. All the ingredients were ready, too. Just one vial of grace short. It irks him how close he was. And, what? Henrikson of all people was the one to stop him?</p><p>Dean cracks his neck and stares out the window. “You’re not gonna answer him? He’s been texting you all day.”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter.” </p><p>Sam scoffs. “What doesn’t? Cas?”</p><p>Dean’s jaw clenches and he grabs at the table between them, holding onto the edge with a white-knuckled grip. “He’s not Cas.” Sam goes quiet, and Dean winces. The words felt wrong. They’re not true, not really. </p><p>“Let me crash at your place tonight.”</p><p>It’s a long while before Sam answers. He just crosses his arms and turns his head to the side. Dean has almost forgotten what he said in the first place when Sam pushes a quiet, defiant, “No,” through his teeth. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean closes the door to the apartment behind him with a click, trying not to make noise. He doesn’t know why he even tried, because the second he dares let out an exhale of relief, he hears, “Dean?” Cas’ worried tone cutting through the silence. </p><p>The lights are all off, so Dean doesn’t notice at first when Cas’ silhouette apparates into the living room. Then, he sees him, and jumps back against the door. “Jesus, Cas! Don’t do that.”</p><p>“You went.” Cas says. </p><p>“What?” Dean asks, blinking, trying to make his eyes adjust to the dark. </p><p>“You went,” Cas repeats, his voice growing firm, “When I asked you not to.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t have a response. What can he say? It’s true. It’s true, and he didn’t even do what he set out to do. He thought he would be home by now.</p><p>He really hoped he would be home by now. </p><p>Dean startles a second time when Cas appears inches from his face. Now, he can really see Cas, and he’s backlit by the moonlight streaming in from the windows. “Cas,” Dean breathes. </p><p>Cas puts a hand on Dean’s chest and pushes him back against the door with a gentle force. Dean lets it happen; he’s cornered. Cas reaches up to cup Dean’s cheek, tilting his head so their eyes meet. There’s nowhere to hide. “I touch you, you pull away,” Cas whispers, a hint of a growl in his throat. “I call out to you, I’m ignored.”</p><p>“Dean.” The name comes with power, urgency. “I’m yours. Are you mine?”</p><p>Dean stares for a second into Cas’ eyes, taking in his wild, serious gaze. He nods. He isn’t sure why, doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he <em>nods</em>. Dean averts his eyes instantly, disbelief overcoming him. His blood runs like ice through his veins. </p><p>What has he done?</p><p>But then Cas pulls him into a hug, and Dean collapses into it. And it’s familiar yet foreign, natural yet forbidden. Cas strokes a hand over the nape of Dean’s neck. “I’ve got you,” Cas says.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow. I hope this was worth the wait. I'm excited that the story is picking up momentum! Sorry for the wonky schedule :0, I just moved, so things have been hectic. Chapters should come out every 7-12 days. I thank you immensely for your patience and for your lovely, lovely comments and support.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Nothing in Common Whatsoever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the next five days, Cas avoids Dean. It’s like it’s a test, and he’s failing; he isn’t sure he wants to pass. Cas doesn’t sleep next to him in the bed. He doesn’t initiate any touches. His speech still softens, the way Dean supposes it would when talking to a partner, which makes Dean think maybe Cas isn’t mad. Maybe he’s...waiting. </p><p>Dean isn’t sure how much longer Cas will have to wait.</p><p>He hasn’t heard much from Sam either. <em>He’s </em>probably mad. Anytime Dean calls, Sam just says, “Working on it. Be ready.” Ready for what? If Cas wasn’t hovering around him all the time, maybe he could go and find out. But he can’t. </p><p>Dean’s on the couch in his pajamas—he hasn’t changed them in days—nestled into the corner that is now Dean-shaped. Yeah, maybe he’s in a mood, but he’s allowed, okay? He’s got his laptop open on his knee, registering the shenanigans of the Mystery Gang vaguely as Cas hovers, perched on the opposite end of the couch.</p><p>Dean looks up at him, finally, and finds that Cas has been staring this whole time. Weirdly enough, it doesn’t seem creepy. Just more...attentive? Cas raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting for something. “What?” Dean asks, now fully distracted from <em>Scooby Doo</em>.</p><p>“You know, the television is right there. We could watch cartoons on that.”</p><p><em>We</em>. Does Cas want to watch cartoons with him? Is that the big thing he’s missing? Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah, okay. Cartoons on the TV. Any other requests?”</p><p>Cas apparates an inch from Dean—wow, he’s never going to get used to that—and reaches his hand out to grasp the screen of the laptop. “You’re still in your pajamas.”</p><p>“Yeah, so?” Okay, Dean takes it back. The staring is a <em>little</em> creepy now. </p><p>“You’re supposed to log onto your therapy session in seven minutes.” Cas says matter-of-factly, but there’s a lilt to his voice that reminds Dean of when he was little and had to convince Sammy to get in the bathtub. Shit, he’s actually going to have to go to therapy, isn’t he? It’s either that or tell the truth. </p><p>He’s in too deep at this point.</p><p>Dean looks down at his collared pajama shirt. “What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?”</p><p>Cas sighs, resting a hand on Dean’s knee. “Just don’t be late like the last time. If you’d like to have the session here, I’ll leave you to it.” Cas gives Dean a pat before getting to leave.</p><p>Dean unpauses <em>Scooby Doo. </em>The villain is in the middle of the <em>And I would’ve gotten away with it, too</em> speech when a notification pops up on his screen.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>Therapy 1:30</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>He looks up at the status bar. It is indeed 1:30. Is he really about to do this? Surely it’s not ethical, right? (Yeah if only that was his main concern.) </p><p>Maybe he just won’t go. Right? Yeah, of course. Why would he go?</p><p>But then Cas would find out, wouldn’t he? And then Dean would feel like shit. And then he’d probably have to tell the truth and...<em>God </em>he’s really hoping he doesn’t have to do that.</p><p>Sucking in a breath, Dean moves his cursor over the notification and clicks. A link pops up for the session, and follows it, doing a little side-eye around the room to make sure Cas really isn’t lurking somewhere as the telehealth site loads. </p><p>Dean sits in a virtual waiting room for a minute. He’s almost started to zone out before the dumb loading circle is replaced by a woman with long, dark hair. “Hi, Dean,” she chirps. </p><p>Dean jumps a little at the sound and straightens himself against the back of the couch. He props the laptop up properly on his lap. “H-h…” He clears his throat. “Hi.” Suddenly, Dean can feel his heartbeat in his throat. Does he really, actually want to do this?
</p><p>“How are you?” the woman asks. Shit, what was her name? Doctor…? Nope, nothing. Well, hopefully he won’t have to address her directly. “I see you’re settling into your break nicely.”</p><p>Dean isn’t sure what she means at first, but then it hits him. Geez, is it really that odd to walk around in your pajamas? “Hm, y-yeah I guess I am.” he says with a polite chuckle. </p><p>The therapist tilts her head. “You seem hesitant to agree.”</p><p>“No, nope I’m just...enjoying some time with Cas.”</p><p>The therapist (oh wait, it says her name at the top of the screen)—<em>Dr. Chen</em> cracks a smile. She looks down to scribble something. “So I take it that means a...healthy amount of sex?”</p><p>Dean’s soul leaps out of his body. He feels himself go red. “Uh...n-<em>no</em>. <em>No</em>.” He shakes his head, trying to seem somewhat casual amid his flustered state. Does Other Dean just <em>talk </em>about that stuff? Openly?</p><p>“Huh,” she says, like this is confusing her, “Well, last time we spoke, it was the opposite. Is it something about being away from the action that’s making you pull away?”</p><p>“N-no,” Dean sputters, still flustered. “No, I...It’s…” He sighs. “I’m used to working all the time.”</p><p>“Is Castiel affectionate with you?”</p><p>Dean wishes he could just crawl into a hole. “Yes, but I’m…I don’t—can’t give it back.”</p><p>“And why do you think that is?</p><p>“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to tell me? You know, psychoanalyze or whatever.” Dean looks down at his lap. He’s tempted to just close the computer. </p><p>“Dean…” Dr. Chen says, drawing his name out. She puts her pen down and rubs at her chin. “Would you say...do you <em>think</em> maybe that you don’t deserve Castiel’s affection?”</p><p>He stills. <em>I know I don’t, </em>is what he wants to say. How could he? “I don’t...I don’t know,” Dean manages. </p><p>“How are your nightmares?”</p><p>Woah. How are those two things related? “Bad.” Dean says without thinking. He has nightmares every night, always has, but...maybe he shouldn’t have told her that.</p><p>“Have you communicated this to Castiel?”</p><p>Dean shakes his head. He hasn’t communicated <em>anything</em> to Castiel. And at this point, he’d like to keep it that way. </p><p>“So, you feel guilty about what happened, about not working, and perhaps unworthy, so you pull away. Have you ever thought that without context...Castiel might think he’s done something wrong?”</p><p>Yes, Dean <em>has </em>thought about it. Extensively. This lady sure does get paid a lot to state the obvious. She doesn’t get it, though. She can’t. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean’s still brooding from the fifty five minutes of talking about his feelings when he gets a call. He’s expecting, well, <em>hoping </em>it’s Sam so that he can yell at him for however long it takes for him to mysteriously hang up again, but it’s not. It’s Charlie. He settles back onto his bed and swipes his finger across the screen.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>“Woahh, dude,” she says immediately, “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Charlie makes a noise that’s halfway between a chuckle and an <em>aww</em>. “You’re radiating major sad boy vibes through the phone. What happened?”</p><p>“I barely said anyth—” Dean grunts. “Is there a reason you called?”</p><p>“Fine, but we’ll come back to this later. I’ve been working with Sam on this whole passcode thing.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“<em>And</em> I’m working on it. You need special clearance to access each item, and you only have that for a handful of them. The codes are auto-generated every day at midnight, so I’ll need to access their system.”</p><p>Finally, some good news. Good to know Charlie is willing to engage in illegal activities across realities. “Well, can you do it?”</p><p>“Oh Dean,” she says in a sort of sultry voice that he knows must be a reference to <em>something</em>, “Don’t insult me.”</p><p>“Great.” He sits up, the familiar feeling of adrenaline rising in his chest. “When’re we doing this thing?”</p><p>“Slow down, cowboy. It’s going to take some work. We’re going to have to make it look like it was never taken in the first place. In the meantime, though...you guys need to work a case.”</p><p>“What case?” Even though he has no idea what she’s talking about, the words still come out quick and urgent. At this point he’d take any distraction from his whole...domestic situation. </p><p>“Anything. Pick one from the database. You just need a documented reason for why you checked out the demon blade. Sam says you guys haven’t used it yet. You’ll have an in to go back to the headquarters when you return it.”</p><p>Dean takes a steadying breath. “Yeah, okay. Got it.”</p><p>“Alright, I gotta go. <em>Don’t </em>do anything stupid.”</p><p>“No promises,” Dean says, and he almost smiles. </p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean realizes pretty quickly after the phone call that he’s going to have to go back to work, which means going against Cas’ wishes twice. Well, at least he didn’t say he wouldn’t do it again? Yeah, probably not the best logic.</p><p>Well, he’s got no choice. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he starts toward the front door, dressed in his hunting clothes (the closest he could get with Other Dean’s wardrobe). “Dean?” Cas calls, and Dean freezes. He turns around. </p><p>“Cas.”</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“I, uh…” Dean averts his eyes. He digs his fingernails into his palms. “Going to Sam’s.”</p><p>Cas nods, his face blank. “How long will you be gone this time?” he asks, and <em>God</em>, the way he says it is like a knife; it’s a weapon.</p><p>Dean gulps, and for some reason Dr. Chen’s voice pops back into his head. “Cas, I...I just...I want—I <em>need </em>you to know that this is not your fault.”</p><p>“Okay, Dean,” Cas says, and the fact that Dean can’t read the tone of it is infuriating. But he’s gotta go. </p><p>Yeah. </p><p>He’s gotta go. </p><p> </p><p>“Dean?” Cas says, taking a few steps closer. “It wasn’t your fault either. What happened.”</p><p>Dean knows Cas must be talking about something specific, something he doesn’t know about, but he pretends it’s for him. “I’ll be back soon.”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>“Thought you could get rid of me, huh?” Dean says when Sam opens the door. </p><p>Sam ignores him, walking over to the dining room table where he’s got his laptop open. Dean shuts the door behind him. “I’ve been working.” </p><p>“Found us a case?” Dean never thought he’d have to work a case within a case, but well, first for everything, right?</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam says, taking his seat again at the table. He pulls up a PDF file on his computer. “Multiple reports of demonic possession in a town outside Erie, Pennsylvania.”</p><p>Dean rubs his hands together. Okay, this he can do. “So, all we gotta do is gank a couple of demons, get the grace and go home. Seems easy enough.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam says unenthusiastically, “Seems like it.”</p><p>Dean takes a seat next to him at the table. “Why’re you pissed at me?”</p><p>Sam makes that little <em>huff</em> noise he makes when he’s annoyed and turns his head at Dean. “How’s Cas?”</p><p>“Fine,” Dean glares. </p><p>“You’re still pretending to be his fiancee?”</p><p>Dean crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not pretending to be anything. I’m just trying to get home.”</p><p>“Right.” Sam turns his gaze back to the computer, but his fingers stay tensed above the keyboard.</p><p>“Listen,” Dean says, “If you got a problem just say it.”</p><p>“We’ve been here a week, Dean. What do you have to gain by not telling him the truth?”</p><p>“I don’t…” Deep down, Dean knows the answer. “I’m not <em>like </em>him, alright? I’m not like the other me. He’s not me.”</p><p>Sam sighs, shutting his computer. He looks at Dean again. “Nothing in common whatsoever?”</p><p>“Well Other Sam has that weird gender thing and you don’t. Other Dean likes...likes dudes...and I...I’m not like him, Sam.” Sam’s face falls and he averts his eyes, picking up a pen to scribble in a notebook, looking back and forth between a lore book and the page. “Sammy?” </p><p>Dean feels a lump in his throat. No matter how much he swallows it won’t go away. </p><p>“Sammy, talk to me.”</p><p>Sam makes a groan of annoyance, but he doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “Sleep here tonight,” he says, his words clipped and resigned. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”</p><p>Something tells Dean this won’t go away in the morning. He leaves Sam alone at the table. </p><p>Everything will work itself out, he tells himself. 

It’s gonna be fine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the wait and thank you for reading and engaging with me in the comments! I'm so grateful for all of you!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Like Them</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a thunderstorm the next morning. Dean hasn’t slept. Not for lack of trying, either. He checks his phone. 6:32 am, nothing from Cas, and he isn’t sure whether to feel bad or grateful. He rolls out of bed, rubbing at his neck. The pillows were too stiff.</p><p>Sam’s already awake when Dean stumbles into the kitchen.  Maybe he couldn’t sleep either? He’s dressed, but Sam’s never gone hunting in an outfit like this. He’s wearing all black down to the boots with a tight, long sleeve shirt and weird zipper pockets down his pant legs. Dean squints against the light, taking him in before a beeline for the coffee pot. He leans over the counter, opening all the cabinets until he finds the one with the mugs in it. Sam leans against the stove, watching. </p><p>“Morning,” Sam says. Dean pours the last of the coffee into the mug and sets it down again. Sam makes a frustrated grunt and leans over to pick it up, walking it over to the sink. “You know if you leave it it’ll get crusty.”</p><p>Dean blinks, taking a sip, pretending he didn’t burn his tongue. “What?”</p><p>Sam runs the pot under the faucet and doesn’t look at Dean. “Did you sleep in your clothes?” Dean looks down. Right. He’s wearing the same shirt from yesterday, minus the pants. </p><p>“Whatever,” Dean says. His brain’s too wrung out to think of a better reply.</p><p>Sam shuts off the faucet. “We’ll leave soon.”</p><p>“You’re pissed at me.”</p><p>“Why would I be pissed at you?” Sam deadpans.</p><p>“‘Cause...I don’t know, this thing with Cas. You’re mad.”</p><p>Sam sighs. “Yeah. Sure, Dean.” </p><p>He leaves without another word. </p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>~~</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>The drive is long and largely silent. Dean wants to turn on some music. Hell, he almost <em>needs</em> it, but every time he reaches for the knob, he catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, and his hand falls away. Dean can’t even lean over and complain about how absurd it is that he’s driving a Range Rover instead of the Impala.</p><p>This is bad. He knows he messed up. Only, he’s not entirely sure how...or how to fix it. <em>What did I do?</em> He wants to ask so badly. But he shouldn’t, right? Maybe a good brother would already know. Shit. </p><p>He should already know. </p><p>Dean clears his throat. “I…”</p><p>Sam’s eyes dart over to him. “Did you say something?”</p><p>“How far out are we?”</p><p>“About a half hour.”</p><p>~~</p><p>It’s mid-afternoon when they pull into town, and by then the road has become a secondary character to the thoughts racing through his mind. He’s never gone so long without music. He needs sound. Sam’s on his phone, looking over the case details for the millionth time. </p><p>“Would think you got that thing memorized by now,” Dean says, trying to fill the silence. </p><p>Sam stares ahead. “How often do we get to know what we’re going into beforehand?”</p><p>Dean can’t argue with that. It <em>would</em> be nice to have a rundown before every case. But he can’t get too comfortable here. </p><p>The two of them pull up in front of a small, white house with the shutters drawn. Sam double-checks the number. “This is it.”</p><p>Dean looks down. It’s weird not to be suited up to talk to the witness. What, is he just supposed to...be himself? He takes a minute longer to get out of the car, letting Sam get a start towards the door. </p><p>“My goodness,” the woman says when they’ve settled into the living room. She’s about mid-thirties with curly black hair that bounces when she turns her head. She’s crying, and like always, Dean’s uncomfortable. He fidgets in his chair. “When they said they would change my case priority, I didn’t think...think they would send the...Thank you so much.”</p><p>Right. They’re famous. Dean keeps forgetting. </p><p>“It’s no problem,” Sam says with that smile of his. He’s good at knowing what to say. “We’re happy to help. Can you tell me about the last time you saw Jade? Any details that didn’t make it into the report?”</p><p>“She was—well, of course you know this—her eyes...went black.” The woman takes a moment to compose herself. “And she...she vanished. I don’t…” She looks up, her eyes locking with Dean’s. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”</p><p>Dean waits a beat...two...three, and it seems like Sam isn’t going to jump in and save him like he always does. He can’t decide if it’s worse for her to know exactly what happened, or for her to have some lie served up from the fake FBI. This scenario seems just as traumatizing. </p><p>“What we know is…” Dean begins, “Demons, they...they need vessels. So, if the demon is still…” Dean swallows. “Still in Jade, then she’s alive. Or...it could have switched vessels.” Or she could be dead.</p><p>The woman nods, shakily. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything more...helpful.”</p><p>“Actually,” Sam pipes up, “Do you have a picture of Jade we can use?”</p><p>
  <strong>~~ </strong>
</p><p>When they’re back in the car, Sam gets out his bag and starts rummaging through it. He pulls out a brass bowl and several vials of god-knows-what. He hands the vials to Dean.</p><p>“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks.</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes like it should be obvious. “Finding spell.” After all of his...dry ingredients—which looked to be the bones of small animals—were in place, Sam says, “Red one.”</p><p>Dean looks down, startled. He hands Sam the suspiciously-unlabeled red vial, then the brown, and— </p><p>“Stop.” Dean says. “Just...stop.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t stop. Hell, he doesn’t even look up. Dean reaches for his hand. “Dude.”</p><p>“Don’t fucking touch me, Dean,” Sam snaps, and Dean recoils like he’s been burned. Sam takes a long breath. “I’m trying to do the thing. Solve the case.”</p><p>“Tell me what’s wrong.”</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong,” Sam says, turning his head to face the window. </p><p>“Look at me.” Dean says. Nothing. “Fucking...<em>look at me</em>, Sammy.”</p><p>Sam finally does, and his face...it’s enough to stab Dean through the heart. “What do you want me to do, Dean? Huh? You keep saying....<em>fuck</em>—all you want is to go back home. Get things back to how they were. What if I don’t want things back the way they were?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I like...I <em>like</em> being this version of me, Dean. I like the way people look at me...and talk about me. I like it.” Sam looks down.</p><p>How could Dean have been so stupid? He sighs. “This is about what I said last night, isn’t it? Shit, Sammy. I didn’t <em>mean it</em>, okay? I’m just scared.” </p><p>Sam shakes his head, eyes meeting Dean’s again. “Scared?”</p><p>“Yeah...scared. Scared that...that this other guy that looks like me...Maybe we have a lot in common, you know?”</p><p>“Dean, I’m <em>like</em> the other Sam.” Sam says, his words becoming more sure. “I’m like...them.” They look up, waiting for Dean’s reaction. </p><p>Dean smiles. “Sammy...” He takes a moment, then says, “You gonna finish that spell or what?”</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Sam’s pendulum takes the both of them to an abandoned warehouse—why is it always an abandoned warehouse?—one town over. It stops swinging when they arrive, and Sam puts it in their pocket. They give Dean the “it’s go-time” look, and Dean nods.   </p><p>Dean gets out of the car, gun cradled, and he laments at how much cooler this whole thing would look if he had been driving Baby. Right—he needs to focus.  The demon blade sits cool against his waist. He grabs at it. </p><p>“Don’t use the blade unless you have to, Dean.” Sam says, his hand on the door, “We’re trying to save the vessels.”</p><p>Dean nods, moving his hand away. “Copy.”</p><p>When the door finally swings open, though, it’s not Sam who does it. The demons must have been expecting hunters. Dean and Sam are scarcely able to take one step before they’re thrown against the brick wall. </p><p>Well, Plan A’s out the window. </p><p>Dean reels, scrambling to his feet. There are three of them, all adults. But then, another figure emerges from the shadows. She looks about fourteen, but the carefree youthfulness he glimpsed in her yearbook picture is gone. </p><p>“Winchesters,” the demon possessing Jade says, its presence commanding even in a child’s body. “I have to say, I’m touched.” It puts a hand to its chest. “Are we that important that the heads of HunterCorp themselves came to deal with us?”</p><p>Dean reaches beside him for his gun—he dropped it when he fell. If he can get to it, he can stop these guys with a couple devil’s trap bullets. He makes the move, but his hand cramps, contorting in pain. The demon in Jade laughs. “I hope we don’t disappoint.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Dean breathes. He looks over at Sam, who’s begun mumbling the exorcism under their breath. </p><p>Sam gets as far as <em>omnis incursio</em> before a demon closes his throat up. Dean watches as he struggles to get air. Their hand reaches carefully to the gun in their waistband, and they lock eyes with Dean. Dean gives a slight nod, readying himself to grab the blade. </p><p>In a swift motion, barely a few seconds, Sam whips out their gun and shoots two demons, stopping them where they stand. Sam gasps as the hold is freed on their throat, but Jade’s demon slams them back against the wall. He turns almost purple, nose bleeding. </p><p>Dean picks up the chant where Sam left off. “ <em>Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…</em>” The demons hiss in pain, and the last adult vessel lunges for Dean. </p><p>He plunges the blade into its stomach, then turns to grab up his gun. He aims it for the last demon, who’s got Sammy suspended against the wall. “What are you going to do, Dean?” the demon taunts. </p><p>Dean grunts, looking between Sam and the demon. Sam looks as if he’s about to pass out. He’s got to make a decision. “You wouldn’t hurt this poor little girl, would you?” the demon says in a sing-songy voice.</p><p>Dean’s body goes cold. He steadies his hand, taking aim. “Try me, bitch.” </p><p>He pulls the trigger, hitting the girl square in the shoulder.</p><p>He’s never finished the exorcism chant faster in his life. He breaks into a sprint once the black oozes out of the hosts, and he catches Jade before she hits the ground. <em>Cas</em>, he thinks desperately, <em>Castiel, I need you</em>. </p><p>The rest of what happens is a blur, flashes of bright lights. </p><p>Cas heals every one of them, and Dean feels like shit.</p><p>
  <strong>~~</strong>
</p><p>Dean lets Sam return Jade home. He doesn’t want to deal with the emotions—he <em>can’t</em>, not with Cas right next to him, <em>looking </em>at him. It’s too much. Dean watches through the window as Jade’s mom practically collapses with joy. </p><p>“Thanks for that,” Dean says.</p><p>Cas looks at him, a little smile in his eyes. “Of course.”</p><p><em>Okay</em>, Dean thinks breathing through a shaky sigh, <em>I can do this</em>. “I’m sorry, Cas, I’ve...I’ve been such a fucking dick. You don’t deserve that.”</p><p>Cas frowns, reaching for Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, I...I just want to know how to help you. I need you to let me.”</p><p>Dean shakes his head. “I don’t deserve your help. I don’t deserve...you.” The thought occurs to him that maybe, just a little, he’s talking to his Cas too. </p><p>A soft, gentle laugh escapes Cas. Dean’s almost startled by how fond it sounds, how warm. “You already protect the whole world. You don’t need to protect me too.”</p><p>Dean’s mouth hangs open. He tries to think of what on earth he can say to that. But before he can utter a sound, the back door opens, and Sam pokes their head in. </p><p>“You ready to go?” they ask.</p><p><em>No</em>. </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says, “Let’s get outta here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so so sorry for the long wait on this one. I was going through finals, and I, like our friend Dean, have ADHD and my executive dysfunction has only recently improved. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We're getting close to having *that* conversation if you know what I mean... :)))</p><p>Thank you all so much for your comments! I read and cherish every one of them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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